


Paragraph 17

by kattahj



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattahj/pseuds/kattahj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is suspected of breaking agency rules. The resulting investigation brings out secrets that completely change the way the trio thinks of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Likeadeuce for the beta!  
> The bare bones of this story was first intended for the TV fandom, many years ago. Obviously, the character changes and addition of Gaby means that the end result is now very different. :-)

Six months down the road, U.N.C.L.E. had grown from Waverly's modest little team to a minor agency of its own – not with the resources of its national counterparts, perhaps, but with the advantage of easier international access. Napoleon was getting used to strangers around the headquarters and no longer saw any need for immediate introduction. Well, unless the stranger in question was a particularly beautiful woman, but that was a rare event.

Even so, the men walking past him, in their drab, grey suits, stood out in some way he couldn't explain. He looked them over, but could find no signs that they were infiltrators or in any way disingenuous, and so he continued on his way.

Halfway through the corridor, he realized the nature of the aberration. The men seemed like _clerks_ , not spies, yet their clothing, dull as it may be, was too upscale for secretaries.

Curious, he turned back, watching them depart. He could ask, of course, or steal their identification, but headed in the other direction was one of his new colleagues, and she gave them a friendly, somewhat nervous smile that indicated she knew who they were. And so instead, he waited.

When the girl came close, he quietly called her over. They had spoken before, and he thought her name was "May", but he was nowhere near certain enough to use it.

"Hey," he said instead. "Who are those two?"

"Inter-agency investigation," she said, keeping her voice even lower than his. "Sent from Washington on orders from the US government."

He raised his eyebrows. "Has Waverly been pilfering from the funds?"

"Have you?" she shot back. "I think they're investigating a single agent, not the agency as a whole."

That was a troubling thought. At CIA, Sanders had turned a blind eye to Napoleon's activities, and Waverly had continued in that tradition, but if anyone wanted to cause trouble for him, they definitely could.

The men had entered Waverly's office now, and Napoleon positioned himself outside, winding his watch. He kept winding it so long that he lost track of what time it was supposed to say, yet failed to pick up anything more from inside than a few murmurs. Waverly's tone was displeased, that much he heard, but whether with his conversation partners or something else was impossible to tell.

Eventually, the men exited again.

"Gentlemen," Napoleon greeted them, and they gave him quick nods before proceeding on their way. Further inside, he noted, not towards the exit.

"Did you have an errand, Solo?" Waverly asked.

"Is there something going on?"

"You tell me. How's the Boldemann case?"

"Boldemann's on the flight," he replied. "We're monitoring him there and awaiting his arrival."

"Good. Then I expect you to take care of the preparations of that case, rather than concern yourself with matters above your access level."

With that, Waverly shut the door.

Napoleon's eyes narrowed. Preparations for his case could wait an hour; with a transatlantic flight in play, there was no rush. And Waverly hadn't met his eyes.

Well, when you encounter something fishy, what else to do than to go fish? Napoleon followed in the strangers' footsteps, and bit down on a smile when he saw that one of them was headed for the men's room.

Possibly, stealing from the investigators wasn't the smartest idea in the world, but old habits die hard. He went inside, bumped against his target at the sinks, and proceeded into a stall, where he could sit down on the toilet lid and read the notebook he'd acquired.

It was written in shorthand, but that wasn't a problem. He flipped past most of the pages, finding nothing of interest in them, and stopped at the latest notation.

"Kuryakin, I. Suspected paragraph 17 violation. Contacts at Julius, . Expense of 50$ concerning Boyd added to expense account."

The names told Napoleon nothing, but he dutifully copied them down among his own notes. Paragraph 17 he vaguely recognized as the morality clause, though he'd never heard of anyone being investigated for it. And Illya, of all people? Fits of rage notwithstanding, you couldn't meet a more straight-laced guy.

Figuring that the best way to appear above board was to make use of the toilet as intended, Napoleon did so, and then returned to the sinks. He washed his hands diligently until he heard the other toilet flush, and then dried them at equal length, returning the notebook to its proper owner at the opportune moment. The entire venture was surprisingly easy; the man was _definitely_ not a spy.

Having been provided with more questions than answers, he went to search out Illya, but could find no sign of him in his office or the common areas. He went back to get his tracking devices – if he was lucky, Illya was still wearing field-ready clothes.

On the way, he passed by Gaby's door, and she called out to him: "Solo! Do you know why they're talking to Illya?"

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Who's talking to him? The investigators?"

"Yeah. Do you know why?"

Glancing around the room, Napoleon tapped his ear, to indicate that they were potentially bugged. In response, Gaby reached into her drawer and pulled out one of her most recent inventions, a white noise machine.

"Paragraph 17," he said after she'd turned it on.

"17? Which one is that?"

"Morality clause."

That made her frown. " _Morality_ clause? Illya? Are they discussing you?"

"Strangely enough, it doesn't seem like it. Have you two been playing advanced sex games in Waverly's office, or something? Ropes and gags, that sort of thing?"

"Funny," she spat. "We're not even seeing each other anymore. You know that."

"Why is that, anyway? Was there something he did?"

"No, it's just..." She sighed and got a faraway look. "You know what he's like. Everything would be going fine, and then he'd shut down, push me away. I think he was scared."

"Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon said slowly, "tall as a tree, can pull off a car hood with his bare hands, never saw a problem he didn't want to punch, and you think he was scared of you?"

"Of me, of us. I don't know." She shook her head. "I'll talk to him once they're done with him."

Napoleon shrugged. "You're welcome to try."

* * *

If Gaby did find something out, she didn't tell Napoleon, and Illya wasn't very forthcoming either, once he'd left the interrogation. As Boldemann's plane approached, they made their final preparations and headed out to the airport, where the entire operation went down... all right, with a few glitches, but more or less as planned. Right after midnight, the team handed over the target and their report, and after that, Napoleon went home to crash.

In the morning, Napoleon was determined to get the truth from Illya, and pay for whatever piece of interior decoration got broken as a result, but the moment he stepped into headquarters, he was taken in for questioning.

Oh, they called it an "interview", and there were no spotlights or handcuffs, but beneath the polite veneer the sentiment was the same.

"How do you like it here at U.N.C.L.E.?" the most drab of the drab men asked, spelling out the entire acronym. The other one was taking notes and said nothing at all, not even hello.

"I like it fine," he said, leaning back against his chair. "Nice, cosy little team, new experiences – recommended workplace, for sure."

"And your partner?"

"Illya? He's great too. Reliable as anything."

"You've never felt uncomfortable around him?"

"Well," Napoleon said, drawing it out, "when we first met he took some shots at me and tried to rip my car apart, but we were working for separate agencies at the time. No hard feelings."

"And on a more personal level?"

Napoleon put both feet firmly on the ground and his elbows on the table. "Any reason I should?"

Not so much as a change in tone from the questioner. "What of his private life?"

"As far as I know, he doesn't have a private life," Napoleon said. "Very dedicated to the job, is our Illya."

"Any close relationships?"

"Apart from myself and Agent Teller, I would say not. As I said, he doesn't socialize much outside the agency. And if you've got his file, you know about his family."

"And your own personal life?"

"Is doing just fine, thank you." Having the topic at hand move on from Illya to himself seemed like the perfect time to push back without appearing hostile. "Care to tell me why you're asking?"

The clerk straightened his glasses with both hands and looked down into his file. Reading upside down, Napoleon could see it was part of Illya's official KGB file. No surprises there. "Women?"

"Was that an offer?" Napoleon asked mildly.

"You have a reputation as a ladies' man."

"On my good days," he agreed.

"What of Kuryakin? Does he have any luck with the ladies?"

"Illya's a bit more guarded," Napoleon said. "That Russian gloom, you know."

"Is that a no?"

"Would you like us to help you pick up some ladies?" Napoleon asked with mock concern. "I'm sure we could both give some pointers. On fashion, if nothing else."

A faint blush crept up over the clerk's collar, but his expression remained the same. "If you have any awareness of Agent Kuryakin's activities, we would appreciate your cooperation in telling us."

Napoleon thought of a computer disk with invaluable data, burning on a table in Rome.

"I don't," he said. "But if you have any awareness of why you're asking, I'd appreciate your cooperation in telling me."

The clerk closed his file. "That will be all for now, Agent Solo."

Leaving the room, Napoleon was, to his own surprise, fuming. It wasn't a feeling he had much experience with, but he had learned _nothing_ in there. He would have been given more useful readings from a dead salmon. All he had to go on was words, and words didn't say enough.

With quick strides, he headed to Illya's office, and for once, his partner was actually in there. Methodically, Napoleon went through the room, finding and dismantling surveillance bugs in every corner while Illya watched, silently.

"There," Napoleon said once he was finished, and threw himself in the visitor's chair. "Now can you tell me what this investigation of you is all about? Because I've just been interrogated about your _goddamned relationships with women_ , and I don't even know if I was helping you or hurting you because I don't know what they were getting at."

Illya didn't reply, and in the end Napoleon had to press further:

"Come on, what's going on? All I got are some names of people in a notebook, Julius and Boyd, and a payment of $50."

"There was payment?" Illya asked.

"Yeah, apparently. To whom? To what? Are they even people, or something else, code words, places..." He broke off as Illya's muscles tensed. "Places? One place, at least. What kind of a place? They were pressing on your private life, so, a brothel? A den of vice... okay, a den of vice, and you were... I swear, this is like playing charades with someone who doesn't even have the decency to move."

"I don't know how to say it," Illya admitted quietly. "I never have."

"Okay, that's something, at least," Napoleon said. "I don't know how bad it can be, I mean, you know what I get up to. And I know what... well, your rough shit. What could possibly be harder to say than that? Orgies, goats, fiddling little boys... oh my God!"

"Not little boys!" Illya said, horrified.

"Men," Napoleon said, all the bits finally snapping into place in his head. "You meet up with men. Julius – of course. Julius' restaurant. That's where you met them? That guy Boyd?"

"And some others." Illya's gaze was steady on Napoleon, but there was no challenge in it, just caution.

"Well, that makes sense. I don't know why I didn't see it earlier. I just thought you and Gaby... so what was that, just deflection?"

"I care for Gaby," Illya said, heavily. "Sometimes I do, with women. Not often, but she is special."

"She is, at that. I take it she doesn't know?"

Illya gave a helpless shrug. "I couldn't tell her. I couldn't... not."

"Instead you dumped her," Napoleon concluded. "Smooth. So it's mostly men, but on occasion a woman, like Gaby. That's fine. I'm the other way around, but I get where you're coming from."

Illya's eyes widened. "You?"

"Me. That's right. I've been there. Even if I hadn't, I wouldn't ever let you go through this alone. You saved my life, remember? And I've saved yours, and I'm not going to let it go to waste because a couple of pencil pushers don't know how to mind their own business. You may be in a bit of a pickle right now, but I've finagled my way out of bigger pickles than this every day of the week and twice on Sundays."

Very slowly, the corner of Illya's mouth quirked up. "That is _good_ speech," he said. "Improvised and everything!"

"Asshole," Napoleon said amiably.

The half-smile hung in there for a few seconds, and then Illya sighed. "Do you have any suggestions, then, cowboy?"

"Not yet. I will, though." Possibilities were already running through Napoleon's head, most of them too far-fetched to be viable. "So will you, when you start thinking like a spy instead of a hunted animal."

"I am not a hunted animal," Illya said, throwing a warning glare in Napoleon's direction, but there was no heat in it.

"And you should tell Gaby."

All the tension was instantly back in Illya's frame. "No."

"Yes. You need to convince people you can flirt with a girl. Which you can't, but at least with Gaby you can make a decent enough show of it. We have to get the team assembled on this."

"Oh, you think she will be on the team?" Illya rose abruptly from his desk, fingers beginning to drum out a dangerous beat on his thigh. "You think she forgives me when I tell her that I have lied to her, that I am _izvrashchenets_. She will want to work to help me, after that?"

"Maybe not," Napoleon admitted. "But it's worth a shot. Either way, she's not going to sell you down the river."

Of course, though it would be a less convincing option by far, they did still have the option of trying to establish Illya's heterosexuality through some other means, like roping in that girl May... no, April, that was her name. Someone who didn't have any betrayed feelings to mess things up. But Napoleon wouldn't be able to trust them, the way he trusted Gaby. And though lying to her would be easy enough, the truth was, he simply didn't want to.

"If you don't know how to tell her, I can do it," he offered, well aware of the inherent blackmail.

Illya was well aware of it too. He cursed under his breath. "I will do it."

* * *

The rest of the day was mostly spent rubbing shoulders with suspected gun smugglers. Illya had been placed on temporary suspension from active cases, which meant it was just Napoleon and Gaby. Judging by her effortless performance in her bartender role, she had as of yet been told nothing, though it was clear that she wondered. Well, it was a conversation ill suited for their current whereabouts, and so he figured he could give Illya a little more time to step up before he did it himself.

Once they wrapped up, Napoleon noticed that Illya was waiting to take her home and so it wasn't entirely a surprise when both of them appeared on his doorstep an hour later. Gaby's eyes were red-rimmed, and Illya's jaw clenched tight, but they were both calm. Like funeral goers, Napoleon thought, and let them in.

"Welcome," he said. "I take it we're all on the same page?"

"I think so," Gaby said, closing the door behind her.

She made a quick gesture with her finger towards the ceiling and raised her eyebrows – alone? Napoleon nodded. He'd fixed the surveillance ages ago.

"I'm his alibi, right?" she continued. "Proving that he likes women. Making it obvious in some way that skirts against the rules about agents dating, without quite crossing it."

There was a tinge of bitterness in her voice, and Illya looked away.

This was going to require alcohol. Napoleon beckoned them further into the apartment, so he could fix up a drink while he spoke. "And are you okay with that?"

"We'll manage," she said.

Her fingers curled slightly towards Illya, as if she was resisting an urge to take his hand. That she wanted to, at least, was a good sign.

Napoleon poured her a scotch, and then another for Illya, who declined.

"It will not be enough," Illya said morosely, crossing his arms. "They have names. They will think it's a ruse."

"Which brings me to the next part," Napoleon said. "Pardon me for asking, but how much did you care for that guy Boyd?"

Illya's eyes flicked, very quickly, towards Gaby. "He was just... some man."

"Good," Napoleon said. "Because we're going to discredit the hell out of him."

If he'd had any worries that Illya was only downplaying those trysts for Gaby's benefit, those worries dissipated by the wide wolf grin that spread over his friend's face.

"I would be happy to. You have ideas?"

Napoleon took a sip out of the drink he'd poured for Illya. "Plenty."

Most of which, it turned out, got nixed by the others. His first suggestion was that they should frame the guy as a KGB agent looking to take down their former colleague, but as Illya pointed out, Boyd wasn't Russian."

"KGB sometimes employs locals," Napoleon said.

"Yes, and you can usually tell what ones," Illya countered. "It's easier for him to prove innocence than for you to prove guilt."

"All right, he's a mobster."

"What would a mobster do with me? What would I do with a mobster? We have not been working mob cases."

"Fine, you tell me when you saw him, I'll tie him to a case."

Gaby's expression turned into a careful blank.

"Last time three weeks back," Illya said after a moment's pause. "And one time a month before that. We were working... huh. Both times we were..."

"Working THRUSH cases," Napoleon said. "Not so strange, we've been doing a lot of THRUSH cases lately. So we put his name in the files, plant some evidence to make it seem like he's a THRUSH agent and we just couldn't get the proof before.

"Not agent," Illya said. "Errand boy. Low enough to get him off with slap on the wrist, but enough to make him seem like a liar."

"Right! That gives a motive quite apart from that bribe he took. He'd started to suspect you were an agent – you did have the sense to use a false name, I hope! Because it's one thing if we say Boyd unveiled one of your covers and another entirely if your whole identity is down the drain."

"I did, yes."

"Okay, we should be able to pull this off no problem, then."

"And commit some actual crimes to cover up the misdemeanor," Gaby said in a false chipper voice.

That stopped them both for a while. Napoleon didn't care one whit if this was legal or not, but he wasn't about to do anything without Illya's approval, which in turn seemed to depend on Gaby's.

"I'm sorry," Illya said, hand briefly touching Gaby's arm before he let it fall back down, heavily. "I shouldn't have got you into this."

"That, I don't have a problem with," she said and drained her drink. "Because this is bullshit. You know that, right? Why would the US Government care who you take to bed? They want you out because you're KGB, and they can't get you on that. They can't get you on your other mental issues either, because they're an asset to the agency. But this _petty nonsense_ they can get you for."

"'Other' mental issues?" Napoleon asked pointedly. "Is that what you consider this?"

Illya shifted on his feet, and Gaby looked first puzzled, then sad.

"You are who you are," she said, attention wholly on Illya now. "No matter how it happened, I know it can't change. I wouldn't _want_ you to change."

"Thank you," Illya said, with a tenderness that made his gigantic form seem like a big ol' sheepdog.

Napoleon got ready to excuse himself and head into the kitchen, in case they needed their privacy, but just then, Gaby's jaw set again.

"But you lied to me for six months, Illya Nikolaievich Kuryakin! You would rather go off with strangers than tell me the truth – strangers who sold you out, even. You may not be able to help your desires, but you can help being _ein dummes Arschgesicht_!"

"You are right," Illya said, his eyes softening in a way that tugged at even Napoleon's shriveled heart. "I'm sorry. I should have told you."

They were face to face now and inches apart, hands brushing each other, and Napoleon began his retreat.

"You, get back here," Gaby said without even turning to look at him. "We're going to nail that bastard. You'll plant the THRUSH connections?"

"Sure thing," Napoleon said. "Illya, will you help me get a disguise that'll help me get close to him?"

"Yes," Illya said, his eyes still on Gaby.

"I'll fix the files," Gaby said. "And try to act like I'm not mad at you. Might be a chore."

Illya smiled softly. "We did it before."

* * *

The disguise Napoleon had to take on seemed taken from the lower-scale end of Illya's closet. The dark slacks weren't too bad, though the keychain hanging from the left side of his belt marred the sight. He supposed with the mission at hand, he had to make allowance for the codes of homosexual subculture over personal aesthetics, though he'd always found it ridiculous to state such a rigid set of preferences about who got to be on top. The suede jacket, however, had no such excuse, and the turtleneck was even worse. It itched against his skin almost as badly as the long bangs of his ridiculous wig.

He tried the ensemble on at home, and once he was done wincing at the mirror, changed back and packed it into a suitcase. The regular detours through subway lines, random alleyways, movie theaters and late-hour department stores took care of any followers he might have had, until he once again put on the disguise in a hotel room and went to work.

Alex Boyd turned out to be quite young and handsome, like a buffed-up Alain Delon, which was a perk when trying to get close to him. Planting a few encrypted notes in his pockets went quickly enough, and that was really all the contact necessary; they already had the guy's home address and could easily break in. Still, Napoleon was curious to know what could have made Illya go for this guy, who was good looking, sure, but also a self-absorbed bore. Lots of alcohol, he presumed, but just in case there was more to it than that, he intensified his flirting. In the end, he ended up in the apartment the old-fashioned way, with the homeowner on his arm – and soon enough on more than that. To his surprise, Boyd was remarkably authoritative, more for giving orders than taking them, even lying face-down in bed.

It wasn't exactly a romance and roses kind of deal, and Napoleon had to take care not to rumple his wig, so the whole thing took no more than half an hour, including the time spent planting more incriminating evidence in Boyd's home.

Less than an hour after he'd left, he strolled into headquarters and asked Gaby, "All set?"

"Yeah," she said. "How do we get them to look at the files?"

"Better not come from us," he said, and called, "Hey, April!"

And so, April, seemingly of her own accord, informed Waverly that the investigators had asked for all of Agent Kuryakin's case files for the past three months. Meanwhile Gaby slipped off to canoodle with Illya somewhere secluded, yet within the daily path of some of the office gossips. And Napoleon sat back to wait.

He didn't hear back from the others, but two hours later, he was called into Waverly's office.

Waverly sat back and did his best disapproving principal impression – which was one of the top three that Napoleon had seen in his lifetime.

"We have been reviewing some old THRUSH cases," he said. "It seems there is a name in there that I don't recall ever seeing before."

"Memory can be tricky that way," said Napoleon noncommittally.

"It can be," Waverly said, "but it's not."

He bore his gaze into Napoleon, who remained mum. If there was one surefire way to incriminate yourself, it was by opening your mouth when it wasn't necessary.

"I can't say I'm pleased with your conduct during this investigation," Waverly said. He sighed. "Then again, I'm not pleased with this investigation."

"No, sir," Napoleon said, carefully keeping the smile out of his face.

"I've sent Agents Kuryakin and Teller on separate assignments for the day. They seem to have come dangerously close to fraternizing."

"You don't say?"

"Solo – stop meddling. I can't afford to lose all three of you."

Napoleon contemplated making some grand gesture, declaring that if Illya was kicked of the team, he'd go as well. But the truth was, he couldn't. U.N.C.L.E. had taken over his contract after the CIA, but there were still more than four years left before he was his own man. And while Gaby wasn't in the same kind of servitude, she needed her work visa to stay in the States. Unemployed, she'd be sent straight back to East Germany.

"Agent Dancer is going to Tokyo this evening on a yakuza case," Waverly said. "I want you to assist her on it. Put your Japanese to use."

"Sir..."

"That's an order, Solo."


	2. Chapter 2

Normally, Tokyo was one of Napoleon's favorite places, and going there with a woman as beautiful and accomplished as April should have been a sheer joy, even with the ongoing yakuza case. No, _especially_ with the ongoing yakuza case – a hint of danger always spiced up a journey. But all Napoleon could think about was Illya, back home, and how the entire thing was now out of his hands.

April tired of him too, on the third and final day muttering something about, "Next time, I'm asking for Agent Slate."

That was a poor way of him to repay her for the solid favor she'd unwittingly done him, and so he did his best to entertain her on the trip home.

Despite the late hour, Napoleon opted to visit headquarters before returning to his apartment, and was lucky enough to bump into a hollow-eyed Gaby, on her way out.

"How's everything?" he asked.

"Good," she said. "Illya's left already. We've been working a case today. He's still not cleared, but..."

"But he's back on active duty," Napoleon filled in, his heart lighter. "That's a good sign."

"Yes." She peered up at him. "Have you been worried all this time...?"

"No, of course not," he countered. "I just hate tinkering with a machine that works, you know?"

The metaphor might not be entirely apt – after all, Gaby tinkered with machines every day of her life, whether they worked or not – but she only smiled.

"Of course."

They spoke very little after that, and Napoleon soon went home to crash. He could manage on very little sleep when necessary, but he also had an affinity for long mornings in bed, especially when he didn't get _into_ bed until well after 3AM.

Thus, it was bright daylight by the time the phone woke him up, ringing by his bedside.

Instantly alert, he picked it up. "Solo."

" _Beweg mal deinen Arsch hier rüber!_ "

He quickly dismissed the notion that Gaby was using German as some kind of code – it was too simple for that. Which left only excitement as an explanation.

"Good news?" he asked.

"Uh-huh. Hurry up!"

With that, she hung up. Napoleon picked an outfit suitable for celebration and dressed in it with as much haste as he could while still doing the clothes justice. He then drove over to Gaby's apartment at a speed that was only vaguely acquainted with the legal limit.

Even so, they'd already corked up the wine – not champagne – by the time he arrived.

"Cleared of all charges," Gaby said, handing him a glass. "We did it."

"I think Waverly also helped," Illya said, an endearing and rather brittle smile on his face, as if he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I'm sure of it." Napoleon took the glass and sipped the wine, which turned out to be a quite drinkable alternative from a modest price range. "I hope you've learned a bit of discretion. Next time, try not to be so obvious."

"There will be no next time," Illya said, reaching out a hand to Gaby, who squeezed it in silence.

For some reason, Napoleon found the gesture irksome, and a cruel desire to put a stop to it made him ask, "However did you manage in Russia, anyway? I can't imagine that the KGB are any more lenient to those kind of inclinations."

Illya grew serious, and looked down on his hand over Gaby's. Silent for a moment, he ran his thumb over her fingers, and she responded by squeezing slightly.

"I was with one man for very long time," he said. "More than five years. After that, I had learned where to go, who to ask."

"Who was he?" Gaby asked. Her hand was starting to sink, but she caught herself and held on.

"Gennady Alkaev," he said. "My controller."

According to his files, Illya had had several different controllers, but Napoleon remembered Alkaev. He'd been the longest running one, until he died on a mission four years ago. The file had stated that Illya had taken "time off" after the death. At the time of reading, Napoleon had ungenerously assumed that it meant that the KGB attack dog had gone rabid without anyone to hold his leash. Now, he wondered how Illya's grief had expressed itself.

"I'm sorry," Gaby said, clearly remembering the same files Napoleon did.

"It's okay," Illya said, his voice almost inaudible. "I have you now."

They smiled at each other in such fondness that Napoleon got a sudden inexplicable bout of nausea.

"That only leaves one problem," Gaby said, letting go of Illya's hands to throw a glance in Napoleon's direction.

"What is that?" Illya asked.

"How Solo's been looking at you like he wants a piece of that, ever since he learned your little secret."

"I would never cheat on you!"

That came out so quickly and with such force, that Napoleon had difficulty maintaining the smile of carefree innocence that he'd chosen as suitable for the accusation.

"That's not the point," Gaby said.

"I assure you, my dear," Napoleon said, "that I wouldn't dream of moving in on your territory."

Under other circumstances, that would have been a lie. If somebody was willing to yard on their spouses with him, he saw no reason to stop them from it, and even less so when there were no vows in consideration. But he knew better than to let his libido mess up the team – especially a team like this.

"Thank you," Gaby said, a little doubt creeping through in her voice, "but that's not the point either."

"Then what is?" Illya asked, with a frown that could indicate irritation, but was more likely a sign of nerves.

Gaby's gaze met Napoleon's, drifted over to Illya, and then back. Her tongue flicked out unconsciously, to wet her lips.

The gesture, subtle and unintentional though it may be, was easy enough to read. Napoleon had years of experience in these things. Even so, he was quick to tell his pounding heart not to jump to conclusion; he might have hold of the wrong end of the stick.

"What if it weren't cheating?" Gaby said slowly, and there was no mistaking the meaning of _that_ , though Illya still had the same puzzled look.

"She's not threatened," Napoleon said. "She's tickled. Perhaps she'd like to watch. Or... more than watch?"

Gaby's face reddenned a little, while Illya turned pale and jerked back.

"You want...?" he asked.

"I don't want you to do _anything_ you don't want to do," she assured him, a note of panic in her voice.

"I..." He swallowed hard, eyes darting between her and Napoleon. "I have never..."

"Oh, and you think I have?"

Napoleon spoke up at that: "Then perhaps we shouldn't."

That evidently surprised both of them. Gaby scoffed. "You can't tell me _you_ haven't."

"I have," he admitted, and part of him wanted to stop speaking right then and there, because between the two of them they could surely sway Illya, and he'd have to be a fool to give up _that_ chance. Still, he couldn't let them walk into this unawares. "Sometimes it's great. Sometimes it's awkward. Sometimes it starts out great, but when you wake up in the morning, you still wonder what the hell you were thinking. And at moments like those, I say my goodbyes, walk out of there, and if there are any regrets, I don't have to know about them. But we're partners. We have to see each other every day, and I'd prefer it if you didn't see a debauched creature who lured you into sexual deviancy. Further sexual deviancy," he amended.

"We wouldn't think of you like that," Gaby said.

Illya shrugged. "Well..." But his tone, although dry, wasn't serious.

God help them both, they were thinking about it, and all Napoleon wanted was to jump in there with both feet.

"It's been a tough few weeks," he said. "You two need some time to figure things out, and if you decide later down the road that you want to give it a try, you've got my number."

Gaby crossed her arms. "What's going on here?"

Their disbelief was quite exasperating, and he wasn't sure if it was based in assumption that he was game for sex at any given moment, in which case he should probably be insulted, or if it was just this particular moment that was in question. If so, he had to admit that it was hard to keep up the poker face while his imagination was providing him with mental images of Illya in bed. Sleeping with Boyd might have been an error of judgement – it provided his fantasy with too many details.

"I just think this partnership deserves better."

"This _partnership_?" Gaby asked.

He couldn't see her expression, because Illya's eyes widened as if this was some kind of romantic declaration, and he strode forward on those long legs, grasping Napoleon's face in his hand in a gesture too quick to evade.

Then he paused, raising his eyebrows in a silent question, and Napoleon threw caution to the wind, grabbing hold of Illya's hips and pulling him closer.

Their lips met. At kisses went, it was surprisingly tender, tentative. This wasn't a lead-in to a quick tryst with some guy you met at a restaurant. This was the kiss of a man who'd stayed with the same lover for five years, who'd been remarkably shy getting into a relationship with a woman who advertised her interest in him since... well, all right, not day one, but certainly week one.

A woman whom Illya was currently looking back towards, seeking a confirmation.

"Never mind me," she said, sounding a little breathless. "Just go on."

Even so, he remained tense, until Gaby stepped up to them and ran her hands slowly down his back. Her fingers brushed against Napoleon's, and he squeezed them lightly, in gratitude for the way Illya's muscled body melted in his arms.

"Well," he said after a couple more kisses. "I'm done protesting."

"Good," Illya said. "Modesty looks bad on you."

"Duly noted." They were all standing very close together now, like a sandwich with a huge chunk of meat as filling. In more than one sense, too – Napoleon was starting to stiffen, and he could feel Illya doing the same. "So what now?"

Illya looked over his shoulder. "Gaby?"

By stretching his neck a little, Napoleon could see Gaby's pensive face, and he waited for her verdict.

"I want to see what you did with those men," she said eventually.

"It's not very romantic," Illya warned her.

"It doesn't have to be."

Taking her cue, Napoleon flung his arms around Illya's neck, in an imitation of Boyd's mannerisms, and steered him towards the wall. Gaby took a step back and merely watched as Illya slammed Napoleon against the wall, pushing him hard and high enough that his feet almost left the floor.

After that, Napoleon lost track of Gaby, because being on the receiving end was a lot more intense than he could have foreseen. This was Red Peril at his best – not all the way into trembling fury, but well into a frenzied state where logical thinking was not an issue. Knowing what Illya could do with cars and motorcycles, Napoleon took care to push him away from any expensive piece of clothing, opting to undo his own buttons.

"Bedroom," he ordered, and then, "Do you have lubricant?"

"I... no." Illya scowled. "Should we buy?"

"Let's make do with what we have. Cooking oil?"

"I'll go get it," Gaby offered, ducking out of the room for a moment.

There was no reason to wait for her – so many clothes were still left to untangle, and Napoleon was certainly not about to let any of his fall crumpled to the floor, even with the distraction of a hot Russian giant. He hung up his tie and jacket on the bookshelf and undid his shoes, which were _not_ the kind you wanted to kick off. Some more kisses followed after that, and then the rest of his clothes.

Illya, on his part, took some care with his shirt but didn't mind much about the rest, not even enough to remove the socks before the trousers. A remarkable lack of personal vanity, or perhaps an overwhelming sense of lust. Understandable; Napoleon felt it too. For once in his life, he was lusting for a naked man in socks. Then the underwear went, and he forgot everything about any other item of clothing, because _holy cow_!

Trying to remain somewhat in character, Napoleon ground himself against Illya and nibbled at his ear like Boyd would have. Illya withdrew slightly at that, brow furrowing at the too transparent move, but he soon seemed to forget all about it as his cock was wrapped in a greedy touch.

"I've got the cooking oil," Gaby said, stepping into the bedroom. "Oh!"

"Sorry, love." Once again, Illya drew back. "Should I have waited?"

"It's fine," she waved him off, face flushing. "Go on. I'll just sit here and watch for a while."

It had been a while since Napoleon had last participated in sex as a spectator sport, but not long enough to make him bashful. It helped to have a partner who was so suggestible. Whether the notes of direction came from him or Gaby didn't matter, both of them could steer Illya along the path they wanted, and after a while Gaby fell quiet, leaving the entire matter to the men.

Somewhat later, as he lay face-down and guided Illya's pace, Napoleon had to admit that it made for a pleasant variation, to be pounded into the mattress and still in complete control.

Well. In control up to a point, because there wasn't a man _alive_ who could control himself while being taken to climax with a 200-odd pound weight on top of him.

When the rhythm slowed to a halt, Napoleon was so spent he could barely move, nor wipe the grin from his face. For a moment, Illya hovered above him, and then rolled off to the side.

Napoleon stretched out like a cat against the warm, solid body, and noticed the much smaller one crept up in the armchair by the bookshelf, her hand clutched under her skirt.

"Have we performed to your satisfaction?" he teased.

" _Ja_ ," Gaby breathed, and then got her voice back. "Yeah. That was... interesting. Different."

"Different how?"

"Well." She untangled her legs, kicked off her shoes and walked over to the bed, where she placed a hand against his shoulder and shoved him over on his back, not unkindly, but with enough force that it was easiest just to roll with it. The bed was barely broad enough for two men on their backs, and it didn't help when Gaby jumped up on top of him. If it hadn't been for her legs squeezing at his hips like she was about to go horseback riding, he might have fallen off.

In a swift motion, she caught both of his wrists and pinned them down over his head.

"Usually, it's more like this," she said, leaning over him so that her hair tickled his face.

With some effort, he could strain his neck enough to catch her mouth in his, without moving the rest of his body. Kissing Gaby Teller was something he'd long since packed away in a box better not thought about, but unpacking that box now proved quite the pleasant experience.

Illya made a discontented grunt.

"Feeling territorial?" Napoleon asked lightly.

"Feeling pressed against wall," Illya pointed out, but he moved aside a little to make more room for them, resting on his elbow. "Will you be going on long?"

"We're just comparing notes," Gaby said.

"It's interesting, though." Taking his hands down, Napoleon wrapped them around her waist and pushed himself up to sitting position. "Like you said, it's different. What's that all about? Do you mind?"

He gently steered Gaby to the foot of the bed – it was _not_ suitable for three people – so that he could climb on top of Illya. For a moment, he could feel muscles tense under his grip, and prepared to be knocked off, but then the tension eased and Illya let go of a long, relieved sigh.

"Yes," Napoleon pondered. He leaned down and kissed Illya, not on the mouth, but at the exposed base of his throat. For good measure, he let his teeth scrape against skin, a wolf victorious. "This hits the spot for you. Have you and that keychain of yours been lying about your preferences? Why?"

"Keychain?" Gaby asked, but Illya of course understood the question.

"I would not bare me like this for a stranger," he muttered.

The reluctant statement, and its implications, was enough to bring a smile to anyone's face. Napoleon covered his up with a veneer of teasing as he replied, "Because going off with the _bossiest_ bottom you could find isn't baring yourself. Of course."

"It's not the same," Illya snapped. A beat later, his eyes narrowed, and he demanded, "You know this, how?"

"Well, I met Boyd."

"You _slept_ with Boyd."

This notion made Illya sit up at his full length, which made it impossible to stay balanced on top of him. After some flailing, Napoleon landed on the floor.

"Guilty as charged," he admitted. There was a disgusted "ugh!" from the foot of the bed, and he raised an apologetic shoulder towards Gaby. "I got curious! Anyway, he was _very_ pretty. You wouldn't judge me, if you'd seen how pretty he was."

"I have seen," Illya said. "I judge. This man would ruin me, for money. And you 'got curious'?"

"I wanted to see what sort of man you'd take to bed."

"And now you know. Pretty, conceited rat bastards."

"Oh," Gaby said. "Well."

"And little chop shop girls." He reached for her, and she climbed up into his lap, both of them looking down at Napoleon, who pulled his knees up and tried to regain some of his dignity.

"All right, I'm sorry," he said. "You know me. I don't know why you're surprised."

"Not surprised. Wish you hadn't."

"In that case, I wish I hadn't too." Strangely enough, he meant it. Sleeping with Boyd had been fun, and it had given him new insights to Illya in a second-hand sort of way, but if it was about to restrict his access to first-hand experience, it wasn't worth it.

Gaby leaned back, her expression somewhat more forgiving than her boyfriend's.

"Am I a bossy bottom?" she asked.

Illya kissed her ear. "You are good bossy," he said.

"It's not a term used much about women, anyway," Napoleon filled in. "And it seemed to me you rather enjoy a position on top."

"And what do you enjoy, Mr. Solo?" she countered.

"Anything and everything, my dear."

"Would you do to him what he did to you?" Her voice was nonchalant, but not enough to hide her interest in the answer.

Napoleon groaned. "Delightful idea, but not quite yet."

"Do I get say in this?" Illya asked. "Because I say he should not be let back so soon. He can stay at the floor and think about what he's done."

"It's like asking contrition from a cat," Gaby said, but she leaned back further and ground her hips against Illya's. "I take it you're not up to anything further yet either?"

"No," Illya said, pulling her closer, "but I can help you."

She got a very pious expression on her face, though the quirk of her eyebrows brought a diabolic aspect to it. "Well, I won't say no to that."

As Illya bent down to kiss her, he nudged her knickers off, a little at a time, until they reached her knees and she had to kick them off herself. Then he lay down on his back and brought her further down, until she was kneeling over his face, hands against the headboard for better balance.

They were a fetching sight, large hands moving over lean brown legs, tousled hair thrown back in pleasure. Napoleon, on the floor, started touching himself, but thought the better of it. If they were really serious for bringing him in for act three, he'd better be ready. So instead, he just watched – and it didn't take too long for him to notice that the floor was quite cold.

Well, no matter how good the show was, he never did stand for avoidable discomforts, and so he went off in search for a bathrobe. There were two hanging from hooks in the bathroom, and he opted for the smaller one in red silk over the blue terrycloth one.

When he returned to the bedroom, the pair was still at it, but Gaby caught sight of him and burst out laughing.

"No, no, don't stop!" she said, squeezing with her thighs to keep Illya focused on his task. She reached her climax soon after, still giggling between her moans of delight.

Illya's amusement once he finished his task and could see the cause of the hubbub, was more restrained.

"You look ridiculous," he said.

"Well, I wasn't about to wear your monstrosity of a robe," Napoleon countered.

"Shush, he looks fetching," Gaby said. "Makes me wish the bed was bigger. I don't want to have to leave, in order for you two to get it on."

"We could put the mattress on the floor," Napoleon suggested. "Add the sofa cushions, and it's almost a double bed. Not the best quality, but more spacious than this."

Gaby immediately jumped down and started pulling at the mattress. Illya was more slow to go, his eyes searching out hers.

"You were serious, that you want him to..."

"It's up to you," she said, stilling. "If you don't want to, it's not happening."

His bewildered gaze turned to Napoleon.

"I agree with the lady," Napoleon said. "I don't want you to feel pressured."

"I don't. I feel..." The beginning of a frown formed on Illya's face. "Stupid English word, but I feel blessed."

"Why is it stupid?"

"Because. There is no such thing as blessing."

Gaby gently pulled him from the bed and kissed his neck, then his shoulder. "There may be no such thing as God, _mein schatz_ , or Heaven, or angels, but there is _definitely_ such a thing as a blessing."

Napoleon wasn't the kind to get schmaltzy, but he couldn't deny the truth in her words. He'd had better sex with more beautiful people, but being with these two in particular, dragging the mattress onto the floor and stuffing the sofa cushions beside it, that felt like a blessing.

It also felt like a particularly naughty type of sleepover party, but somehow that just added to the experience.

Given the choice, Napoleon preferred not to rush things in bed. Getting everything and everyone in a good position took its sweet time, and even after that was done, he remained stretched out on one side of Illya with Gaby on the other, running his fingers down the side of the ribs, following every bump like a little ladder.

"I think he's falling asleep," Gaby said.

"Am not." Illya's voice was muffled, his face down in the pillows, and there was something about it that sounded off, somehow.

"I'd better get going, then." The oil was near at hand, and it was a matter of practiced ease to get enough in his hand to start the necessary preparations.

A near imperceptible tremble ran through Illya's back, then another. Napoleon realized with a start that they were sobs.

"Should I stop?" he asked.

"Don't you dare." The muffled voice had taken on a fierce note.

Napoleon silently sought Gaby's advice, and got a puzzled shrug.

"Sweetheart?" she asked. "What's going on?"

"Just – memories."

Alkaev, Napoleon realized. If Illya was indeed unwilling to 'bare himself', as he called it, with strangers, this might very well be the first time since his dead lover.

There were just more and more complications added to this every minute. Normally, that would have been enough to make Napoleon turn and flee, but with these two... God help him, with these two he wanted to fix it, instead. He pulled back a bit, ready to give Illya any space he needed, but was met with a disgruntled growl.

With sharp, impatient motions, Illya got up on his elbow and grabbed Napoleon with the other hand, pulling him in for a kiss.

"Keep. Going."

"All right," Napoleon said, licking his lips and pretending not to notice the taste of tears. "You don't have to tell me twice."

Gaby had rolled over on her side, and was starting to pull her legs up, a sign of insecurity that was both expected and easy to fix.

"Do you want to join in, too?" he asked.

"Sure, but how?"

"Get in under."

Her eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"What do you say, Illya? Can you fit her in?" His lips were close to Illya's ear, and his fingers deep inside his ass, which might account for the breathlessness of the reply:

"Yes!"

It took some shifting to get everyone in place, and once they had, he could barely see Gaby beneath the bulk of tall Russian, but he knew that Illya was strong enough to hold up without crushing her, even with another man on top.

Napoleon had to stretch his legs a little further, to fit into position, and adapt his rhythm accordingly, but neither of those things was a problem, and when, after a long and joyous journey, he slowed to a halt and rolled off, he was utterly sated.

Illya was still lying on his stomach, and reached out an arm to pull Napoleon into a half-hug, while giving Gaby a light kiss.

"Ich liebe dich," she mumbled, only her hair and eyebrows visible over Illya's head. One of those eyebrows quirked up towards Napoleon. " _Wir_ lieben dich. Don't we, Solo?"

"Selbstverständlich," he replied flippantly. It was easier to say it like that, than to admit it in the conventional English terms.

And it was true, damn it. Lying next to them, on a lumpy old mattress on the floor, with a sofa cushion propped up behind his back, was the closest he'd felt to home since a small Kingsbridge apartment almost 20 years since. He revelled in the sensation of Illya's relaxed body next to him, the new softness given to its shape. His hand closed on Gaby's – his partner in crime, who had given them that little push they needed.

"How many paragraphs do you think we've violated now?" she mused.

Illya cursed in Russian and flipped over on his back, cradling them closer together.

"They can drag me away tomorrow and it is worth it," he said.

"Well, we won't let that happen," Napoleon said. "We're the best spies in the world, we can throw them off our track if we put our heads together."

"Are you calling me a good spy, cowboy?"

"Of course not. You're terrible. Gaby, on the other hand..."

Gaby laughed. "Don't worry," she said, giving Napoleon a quick kiss on the nose. "I'll make sure to keep my boys safe."

* * *

They all remained in a lazy pile for a while, resting their bodies against each other in warm contentment. Napoleon, still jetlagged, dozed off.

Once again, he was awoken by a phone signal. Gaby stumbled up and took the call, then returned to inform the others:

"Waverly wants us in headquarters. Apparently he's tried calling both of you at home – I said I might be able to get hold of you."

"We will think of excuse," Illya said.

Napoleon stretched out the crick in his neck. The mattress/sofa cushion combination, although adequate for sex, left a lot to be desired when it came to sleeping. Gaby needed a bigger bed. Or, well, considering how getting one would reflect on a young woman's reputation, _he_ needed a bigger bed, and to invite them over to his place.

"You might want to put on some clothes before you head to work," he said, nodding towards Gaby's naked form. "Not that I object on principle, mind."

Gaby looked down at her body, then up towards them, and her face fell. She took a step back, watching the scene before her as if its full implications had just sunk in.

"Oh, God," she breathed, wrapping her arms around herself. "Oh, God, what were we thinking? We all... And _you_..."

Her expression of disgust was too familiar, and Napoleon's heart sank. Illya, too, was alarmed, standing up to calm her somehow.

" _Lyubimaya_ , please," he said helplessly, pulling her into an embrace.

Although she allowed the touch, she was still hyperventilating.

"This is... this is the best thing I've ever done in my life," she concluded, bursting into laughter.

Napoleon sank back onto the mattress, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Not funny," Illya reproached her.

"You should have seen your faces!" she said, still laughing. "I just wanted to see if it was possible to wind Solo up."

"Well, you did," Napoleon said. "Congratulations."

To his own ears, he sounded like a peevish schoolboy, but it did make Gaby relent.

"I really scared you, didn't I?" she asked, kneeling down on the floor to take his face in her hands and kiss him on the forehead. "I'm sorry. It was mean of me. After that Judgement of Solomon self-sacrifice you pulled earlier, I had to know if it was genuine or just part of the game."

"No game," he said. "Don't ever do that again. Especially not – " He stood up and grabbed her thighs, lifting her upside down. " – since I can do this!"

She screamed and laughed at that, flailing around in a way that showed a great deal of her naked body, until she got her hands on the ground and could bend over backwards to return to an upright position. The display was beautiful, and made Napoleon appreciate her ballerina background even more.

Illya's eyes too, rested on the sight for a moment, before he scoffed and turned. "I suppose I must tell Waverly that my partners are too busy fool around naked to come to work. It will not be a surprise, I'm sure."

"It was a hell of a surprise to me!" Gaby exclaimed.

"Got to admit," Napoleon said, "me too."

* * *

What they did tell Waverly, when they came into work, was a much more mundane story of how they'd missed the first call. Illya claimed he had gone down to Tarwid's at Lexington Avenue and forgotten his communicator. Napoleon claimed to have been in the shower, and he took no particular care to pretend that he'd been alone; after all, his reputation already suggested otherwise.

If Waverly found something off with their explanations, he didn't show it, merely briefed them on their next mission, handed them the relevant files and told them to get packed for Argentina.

"Oh, and by the way," he said, tapping his fingers against the tape recorder on his desk, "Agent Teller, there seems to be some issues with the security measures at your apartment. Perhaps you could ask your partners to help you correct that."

"What secur..." Gaby asked, then fell silent as she got the meaning, just about the same time as Napoleon did. Judging by the way Illya stiffened beside them, he'd got it too.

As cushy as the U.N.C.L.E. job was, Napoleon wasn't in the business of trusting his superiors, and so when he'd first moved in, he had sought out the surveillance bugs and spent an utterly dull week inventing a loop to feed them. To anyone listening in, he was as stuck in his ways as Immanuel Kant – though as a concession to his reputation, he'd made sure to include one night of debauchery in the loop.

It had been so automatic that he'd almost forgotten about it, and never thought to ask if the others had done the same thing.

Gaby had gone pale, and Illya was looking like he would hit fight or flight mode at any moment, which in his case hardly ever meant flight, but Napoleon figured that if Waverly had given them fair warning, that was a positive sign. He tried to keep his voice as flippant as possible as he asked:

"Should we be concerned?"

"Oh, no, no, no, not at all," Waverly assured them, and their shoulders collectively fell as they released their breath. "Just make sure to see to it at your convenience. For my sake, as much as yours."

Gaby went from pale to beet red, and even Napoleon had to admit that the line of thought was _not_ one he cared to walk down.

"Yes, sir."

"Absolutely, sir."

"No problem, sir."

Once dismissed, they stumbled out into the corridor, barely daring to look at each other. Another bullet dodged – and there had been so many of them by now, Napoleon rather thought that chasing hibernated Nazis in Argentina would be a welcome change of pace.

As long as they did it together.


End file.
